time
by ella eternity
Summary: But I can't afford to live in New York, and he can't afford to leave. Snittery slash.
1. present

_Authors Note: So this is a sort of..chaptered one shot, I suppose. It's the same idea for both, the same story line really, just set in two different time periods; past and present._

_PS-I desperately want to live in New York…can you tell?_

_Disclaimer: This is fiction. Disney owns Newsies. And they won't share. And I don't own New York. As far as I know, people aren't exactly allowed to own an entire city._

(present)

The island of Manhattan is, approximately, 22.7 square miles in area. Crowded into this relatively small city are 1.5 million people, all leading drastically different lives. You have the artist and tragically hop bohemians in Soho, the spoiled rich girls of the Upper East Side, and, of course, the hopeless tourists of Times Square.

You'd think that, in a city so full of life and rhythm and emotion, a person could never be bored. At any time of the day, or night, or dawn, twilight, day break, you can walk outside and find music, food, anything could want or need. Any desire, be it carnal of comfort, can be satisfied on the island of Manhattan. Sounds like a modern Mecca, a paradise, right? Most people think it is.

But I hate it here. I hate the noise and the movement and the constant stream of unfamiliar faces. I hate the gum on the sidewalks and the crappy coffee on 33rd street and the stupid flyers that move with every desperately warm breeze from the grates on the side streets. I hate how cold it is in the winter, how the snow gets grimy as soon as it hits the ill-paved streets. I hate how hot it is in the summer, how the heat and humidity gives urban jungle a whole new definition. I hate what the attitude of the city has done to me, how I've become cold to strangers and how nocturnal the lights of Midtown have mad me. I'm not cut out for the city. I'm just not.

He, on the other hand, loves it here. He thrives in the smoggy air and the sky scrapers and sticky subway rails. He needs to be here, and I know it. That's what makes it all so hard. I see him among the throbbing masses and jaywalkers, and he just clicks. And then there's his scholarship.

NYU, the school that half of the country dies to get into, accepted him on a full scholarship. His photographs, his deluded and exquisite snapshots, brought him four years of amazing education. The light and image he captured on a little chemical strip brought him artistic recognition and a tiny article in the Village Voice. And, they brought him to me.

Sitting in Central Park and trying to block out the noise and sound and strange smell from the penguin house, I'd felt someone's eyes on me. Or rather, I'd felt their lens on me. And there was. Tall and tousled and dressed in a Beatles t-shirt, the perfect picture of the artistic co-ed. We talked and laughed and ate grilled cheese in a little diner on the lower West side. I fall quickly, and after four dinners in his apartment, I had fallen hard. So we went to old B-movies in little dive theaters and he took me dancing in clubs across all the five boroughs, took millions of pictures and introduced me to jazz, and he made me completely helpless without him. And on a Sunday morning he quietly asked me to move in. And on a Monday afternoon I enthusiastically said yes.

He likes to stay in on Saturday nights and go out on Sunday mornings, chasing pigeons and dreams on the way to the garment district. He holds open doors and guides me through crowded restaurants with the palm of his hand on my back, and always asks if he can kiss me. He has exactly one pair of jeans, worn in and ripped and practically falling apart at the seams, and he wears them with the Converses that he's owned since he was sixteen. He knows just where to buy the best bagels and what deli makes the best sandwiches, and he can always tell me if I could get my fake designer sunglasses cheaper on another block. His handwriting is an awkward mix of the cursive they tried to engrave into him in grade school and the naturally loping script his hand is so desperate to produce, I could recognize it anywhere. He holds skewed beatnik perceptions and likes to spew song lyrics like they're classic literature. Even our nicknames, relics of high school friendships and year book jokes, go together perfectly. Snitch and Skittery. Skittery and Snitch. They blend, twist and just click together. And there is absolutely nothing that I don't love about him.

And we're stupid and young and ignorant and living a sort of modern romance novel life. But I can't be here. It doesn't work for me.

I don't thrive in walk-up apartments with shitty hardwood floors and unreliable heating. I need to actually have a washing machine, a working oven, a toiler that won't flood nearly every time you flush it. I need a small library to visit, a movie store without a back room. I just can't pay so much money for such a tiny apartment with a view of an alley and a trash can.

I don't have an amazing scholarship and an untouchable talent to fall back on. I'm scraping through and trying to keep my grades up and hoping that my parents don't cut off my funds at any given moment, attempting to get a job at any newspaper and praying my writers block will end soon.

But I see him in bed as I'm getting ready to go to class, with the weak morning light filtering through the grime on the windowpane, and he is New York. He's exciting and powerful. Innovative. Modern and classic. Terrifying. He's the blazing lights of Times Square, thrift stores of the Village, the jazz studios of Tribeca. He's New York sophistication and naiveté and new beginnings. The embodiment of city cool.

I adore him and wish I could be his forever. But I can't afford to live in New York, and he can't afford to leave.


	2. past

(past)

I haven't lived in Manhattan my whole life. When I was younger, probably until I was about eight or so, I lived in the country. But when my mama died, I was left here. Here on these 22.7 miles of island. Here with the bright lights and new carriages and giant office buildings. Here where life is never empty.

Here in Manhattan, you can walk out of your door and find any kind of food, entertainment, risk or danger you could want. On every corner you hear voices. And later, on those same corners, you see bodies to keep you warm; you make sure that you're not alone. Any sin can be satisfied don the island on Manhattan. And most people, they love it here. To them, it's the city of hope and fresh starts. The city of America. Most people, they live for New York.

But I hate it here. I hate the bumpy streets, the loose cobblestones, the trolleys that rattle and shake. I hate the dark alleys, the feeling the dread that grows in my stomach when I walk by them by myself. I hate the click of the wagons' wheels, the smell of too much disease and sorrow. I hate how small those grand offices make me feel, how every window and closed door reminds me of my status. I hate the restaurants I can't afford, the grimy sunsets, the stale breezes that come off of the docks. I hate the false hope of Battery Park, the gloss of the World Building, the gaudy signs of the Vaudeville theaters. I hat how much I have to _take _in the city. How much it refuses to give. My nickname wasn't always Snitch, you know. I hate how Manhattan makes people desperate. And I'm just not a city boy.

But he…he belongs here. He thrives among the faceless crowds and fancy ladies and lilting accents. He needs to be here, and I know it. It's where he's always been, will always be.

These streets that I hate, he was raised by them. He grew up among the street children with smudged cheeks and scraped elbows. He's at home in chimney soot and newspaper print, and the grown of an empty stomach barely registers with him. He knows the city like the back of his hand, like I know the storms in his eyes. His feet were made to tear down alleys and city streets, his voice was made to call headlines and blend in with other city boys, creating the songs of New York. And his life is here.

He's been working in the city since he was born, practically. As hard as this life can be, he's a born newsie. He lives for the page numbers, the regular customers, the claimed corners. He doesn't mind the turf wars, the bad pay, the crowd in Tibby's. His rich voice and talent for making up headlines brings him a few black eyes, enough money for a place to stay and occasionally some pocket change. And, it brought him to me.

Sitting in Central Park, trying to figure out which vendor I hadn't stolen from yet, which alley offered the best shelter from the September rain, I'd felt someone's eyes on me. And there he was. Tall and wide eyed and wearing, of all things, a pink undershirt. He offered me a job and a place to sleep, a life more stable than the one I had grown used to. So I took him up on his offer, and he showed me ropes. He taught me how to find the most generous customers, how to claim a spot; he showed me the best escape routes. And we sold together and became quick friends, and we saved our pennies and ate dinner together and went walking in the winter snow and covered the lodging house fees for one another, if it was needed. And on a Sunday morning he gave me a quick and shy kiss. And on a Monday afternoon I finally returned the affection.

He likes to take Saturdays off, chasing dreams and pigeons in Central Park. He doesn't mind sleeping on the fire escape, even though he knows I would gladly share my bunk with him. He lets me go ahead of him in line at the distribution center, sings for me when I'm feeling down. He slings his arm around me in a most casual fashion, uses my shoulder as a head rest, and always asks if he can kiss me. He knows just where to find the cheapest dinners and what table at Tibby's will get the quickest service, just what spots near the harbor are best for spending our rare days off. His handwriting is the awkward script and wording of a boy who learned to write by figuring the shape or words in the evening edition. I could recognize it anywhere. He's alternately gloomy and hopeful, a soul not quite decided. And there's nothing that I don't love about him.

And we're stupid and young and lucky and careful, and praying no one will find out about us. But I can't be here. It just doesn't work for me.

I can't live in a drafty, over crowded lodging house, or constantly breathe in ink and dust and illness. I can't be sure if I'll be able to pay my five cents a night, because I just never know. I don't know when it wills all come crashing down and I'll have to find a new life.

But I look at him in the morning, with the grimy light filtering through the shattered panes of the windows, and he is New York. He's fast paced and exciting. New beginnings and worn endings. A world that's terrifying, exciting and painfully empty. He's the dusky streets at twilight, the lights of Vaudeville, the miracle of the Brooklyn Bridge, the hope of Ellis Island. He's New York wisdom and innocence and a dirty faced city angel.

I love him and wish I could stay with him. But I can't afford to live in New York, and he can't afford to leave.


End file.
